


News of Great Joy

by archea2



Series: The Reason for the Unreason [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Music, Fluff, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg, Sherlock and the Sussex Carol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	News of Great Joy

**Author's Note:**

> First written as a Christmas Sherstrade, on a prompt by List_of_Lists.

 "Ah, Gregory." Young Father Mulligan, who in former days would have been called a first-class specimen of muscular Christianity, squeezed Lestrade's shoulder with iron peace and good will. "Good to see you here, the men's voices could do with some back-up... Ah, Simon, Letty, how are you tonight... though Miss Gunnings here has bravely volunteered to – ah, Michael – join the basses."

"Ah, Padre," Lestrade said for lack of a better rejoinder, accepting Miss Gunnings' outstretched hand and the program that came with it.

"It's the mulled wine." Miss Gunnings, who sported seven feet two of churchly devotion and always cast herself as Herod in the Nativity Play, beamed down on the two men. "Tips me down an octave, that it does. Nothing like cloves and brandy to bring out the oomph."

"Indeed, indeed. Ah, Mrs Henessy, I see you've brought your husband, how nice. You know Detective Inspector Lestrade? We're lucky he's off duty – until we take it into our heads to massacre Purcell, eh, Inspector?"

Lestrade did his best to rally an oomphy smile. Well, he'd hoped to bring someone too for their Carol Evening – had, in fact, felt a tender pang at the thought of showing Sherlock his little church, now filled with enough candles to light them to Babylon and back again. It didn't matter that Sherlock's creed was limited to his own brain synapses; in Lestrade's rather Jesuitic estimation, they were both familiar with faith – that is, with the taut blind trust that there _was_ something out there, still out of scope, yet accessible through roads strange and obscure. With no small effort on their part and, now and then, a chance grace crossing their paths. It was faith that saw them through to the end of the day, call it what you pleased, and now  Lestrade felt ready to share that part of himself with his partner of five years, come what may.

But when he had mustered enough courage to text Sherlock, asking if he'd like to hear some music with a little group of people, drink some mulled wine, check on the stars on their way back, there had been no answer. So much for faith and belief. Sherlock did not do people, and that was that.

Still, Lestrade checked his phone on the sly, only turning it off when Father Mulligan tried the altar mike with a cautious rat-tat.

There were the usual greetings and encouragement for everyone to join in the singalong, then they all launched forth on _Silent Night_. The words brought a world of past sensations, the damp warmth of his mother's woollen cape to a younger Lestrade's cheek; the rough lilt of his father's voice, never shaking off its Dorset burr even after he'd moved his family and prospects to London. The herbed batter pudding that his Nan used to make, mixing a spoonful of snow into the milk for good luck. Lestrade, who had been peering up at the red stained window over him – the Slaughter of the Innocent, speak of a change of scene – closed his eyes and let the many-voiced song rock him gently between layers of time. He did wince a little at _Good King Wenceslas_ , remembering a duet interrogation in his office, one that had led to Sherlock snatching the pen from his hand once the lady had been led away, only to kiss Greg's lips hard and long.

That had been their beginining; was this the end, because Sherlock had once more declined to follow in his footsteps?

But there was the Sussex carol, his favorite, and Lestrade thought he could trust himself to join in. Trust his lungs, now he'd taken the pledge and patch. Cautiously, eyes still closed, he let the simple, beautiful words pull him in. 

_On Christmas night all Christian sing_

_To hear what news the angels bring..._

His memory jammed; his voice tumbled to a pause while his neighbour's, deep and strong, carried on the tune.

_News of great joy, news of great mirth,_

_I've caught you a serial killing nurse._

Lestrade's eyes snapped open as several heads turned sharply toward their row. Sherlock was standing next to him, his face a study in mirth as he brushed down the melting snow from his coat and pulled off his gloves. He gave Miss Gunnings his patented roguish wink, to which she, surprisingly, responded in kind, and took Lestrade's hand in his.

"How did you –", Lestrade began, but the next verse was already rolling on.

_Then why should men on earth be so sad..._

He could feel Sherlock's icy hand warm to flesh under his touch. The touch held all the answers, Lestrade told himself, more than Sherlock's mind ever would. He squeezed it back.

_Since Our Redeemer made us glad._

_Had to run from Croydon, traffic's rough_

_And you had switched your mobile off._

A pause. Father Mulligan's arm rose in its white sleeve, visibly intent on chastising the newcomer's aplomb – then dropped back. Bless the ould alliance between Law and Church, Lestrade thought. Or Sherlock's silky baritone, now buttressing the men's voices most oomphily.

_Then out of darkness we see light._  Lestrade threw his voice in again. They did. See light. And would, one way or another, even if their way was crooked in the eyes of too many men. He lifted their entwined hands to his lips and kissed Sherlock's knuckles quickly as the carol slowed down to its silver, fluid end.

_Glory to God and peace to men_

_Both now and evermore. Amen._

Father Mulligan led the song to its rest, allowing it to blend into soft-edged silence before he spoke again. "We've sung of terror and peace, and darkness and liberty," he said quietly. "These are words of import, and to some of us" – his eyes met Lestrade's under the red stained window – "they speak more urgently than to others. But they're a little abstract all the same. So I'll just read out a last carol, by a lady whose name, in fact, happens to be Carol. It starts with a garden in winter."

He cleared his throat. Lestrade stole a glance aside, worried that Sherlock might grow impatient at what sounded like an elegant nursery's rhyme. But Sherlock was sitting upright, eyes to the priest, all rapt attention.

_Bring me for my Christmas gift_

_a single golden jar ;_

_let me taste the sweetness there,_

_but honey leave_

_to feed the winter cluster of the bees._

And the evening was over, ushering them into a not so silent night as the church people lingered on in happy chattering knots and Sherlock pulled him by the hand to where Father Mulligan stood.

"Ah, Mr —"

"Padre, this is Sherlock Holmes. My – partner." Yes, the only appropriate word. "Sherlock, this is Father Mulligan."

"Welcome to our church, Mr Holmes. I'm glad you could make it despite the, ah, seasonal traffic jams."

Sherlock leant forward, his gaze a pool of argent clarity under the moon. Father Mulligan gazed back, mesmerized, while Lestrade treated his lover to a cautionary pinch. Now was not a good time to deduce that the Bishop was a secret father of five, or that Miss Gunnings dipped her knitting needles in liquid soap to pilfer the collection boxes.

"How can they still make honey if they're flightless and the garden is locked in ice?" Sherlock asked eagerly. "Do they stack pollen before they hibernate? Or invent a substitute chemical, like a scented hormone? Do they have endocrine glands, Padre?"

Lestrade blinked. Father Mulligan, a more dependable soul-reader, smiled.

"The bees in the [_Bee Carol_](http://www.blissfulbees.com/the-bee-carol-by-carol)? Ah, you'll have to ask Ms Duffy, I'm afraid: myself, I'm a hardcore Londoner. But there has to be an answer – the Bible says they make honey in the cleft of rocks, so I dare say nothing's past their minds."

Or yours, Lestrade thought fondly as they walked out into the street. His own mind was eddying back to that Dorset village, a creased memory now, and the line-up of hives under his grandmother's garden wall. Would they still be there, gleaming like small igloos under their coats of ice? His Ma would tell him when he called on the 25th.

"Or you could take Boxing Day off, too, and take me there," a voice said at his side.

_Let me taste the sweetness there_. "Yes," Lestrade said simply, and paused to raise his face. Not to the cold edge of the wind, or the black holes between the stars, but to the blessing of Sherlock's touch, the gentle dip of his mouth to Lestrade's cheek. Confident in his faith that, year in year out, in terror as in peace, it would be there for him.

 


End file.
